


You don't know

by rGo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 13:30:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5006548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rGo/pseuds/rGo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam stakes his claim.<br/>Horrific honesty ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You don't know

**Author's Note:**

> So ... 
> 
> I don't know.  
> It just came, Torn from my heart through my hand.  
> It feels raw, unfinished, in spite of the weeks I've spent "refining" it. 
> 
> So it's yours now.

“Look … uh” I pause, staring at her blankly, realizing I don’t know this woman’s name ... either. 

“Donna” she spits out, clearly irritated that I’ve stepped between her and the new found center of her universe.

“Ok, ‘ _Donna_ ’. My brother. Well, he’s had a lot to drink. And sometimes he gets carried away .. and says a lot of things. He doesn’t mean to hurt anyone. He just needs …”

“Oh, I think I know what he NEEDS”, she snaps my sentence in half. The pieces clang to the floor in the following silence. 

She leans close huffing her beer and desperation soaked breath into my face. Then, trying her very best to sound confident and intimidating, she slurs, “and I’m just the woman to give it to him”

-=-

Sigh. 

Yeah, I know.  
You know what he needs.

You ALL know what he needs.  
He’s everyone’s broken Ken doll.  
All lips and eyes and cock.  
And _you're the one_ who can fuck him well again.

But you DON'T know  
No.  
You don’t know ANYTHING about _**my**_ brother.

-=-

No.  
You don’t know.

That I’ve watched hundreds of women just like you throw themselves at him. Literally. He walks in and suddenly all women within a Jager Bomb’s radius are reduced to doe-eyed, lip-licking, purring, hip swaying horny felines. Everything they say slides off their estrogen soaked tongues coated in thin innuendo and ends in “sugar” or “baby” or my personal favorite “stud”. They’re so hungry for him, kittens mewing ‘round a bowl of milk. And _they won’t fucking stop touching him_. Anywhere. Everywhere. 

That he doesn’t care who you are or where you're from: Gala affair; uptight, socialite, dripping in jewels with a Caddy and a Nobel winning husband who can't be bothered. Shitty podunk hole in the wall; local skank, three dollar whore with more miles than the Impala, can’t wait to strip off her beer stained, cleavage strained monster-truck shirt and show him the goods. He just doesn't care who you are.

That he’s a misogynist bastard. Secretly laughing that his perfected “it’s only you baby” wink, that purposeful swipe of his thick pink tongue over his swollen lips and a flash of his A+ smile; hot, horny, a little creepy and maybe a little dangerous, makes you drip with desire. Laughing because for each of you “he’s the one”, but you’re just another nameless diversion, a convenient slot machine to gamble away some inner tension. He doesn’t even hide it. A foul stream of lurid, shame inducing insults vomits out of his mouth as he fucks. And you won’t even care. Just “yeah baby”, “more baby” … blah blah blah. I’m not sure who disgusts me more.

-=-

No.  
You don’t know.

How he comes sulking back at 4:00AM. When he’s done with you. Four AM, the dark that never sees the light it heralds, quick, quick before the sun rises on his shame. That he tiptoes past me. It’s not consideration. He won’t face me, no matter how often I’ve tried. He slinks to the shower, sullen, morose, ashamed, stinking of liquor, cheap perfume, and the thick, sweaty liquids of sex.

You don’t lie there in the dark, cold and clammy and helpless, listening to him. Praying for God to turn your ears to stone. You don’t hear him retching, wracking his body, trying to expel what’s left of his soul. You don’t listen to him curse and cry and promise never again. You don’t hear him trying to scrub the stain off of him.

You're not lying there lungs clawing out of your chest, digging for air; heart paralyzed, biting your bottom lip to blood, because it’s been quiet in there for too long. Praying to God that he hasn’t decided that tonight it was too much. You don’t lie there swallowing your own thick acrid sick, burning the back of your throat. The awful unavoidable finality washing over you: if this is his last night, sunrise marks your last morning.

-=-

No.  
You don’t know.

What it’s like to lie there praying God will turn you to dust, eyes clenched shut- trying to disappear, tears dripping down into your ear... intentionally helpless while not more than ten feet from you he breaks apart.

What it means to endure his great cracking sobs, thick wet howls of pain trailing to hurt whimpers. Swallowing your breath, suffocating in deathly silence, because he'll hold it all inside if he thinks you're awake.. And **THAT** is infinitely worse.

What it means to have him return your breath. That first inhale after waiting ... after his shuddering chest slows, and you hear the most beautiful sound in the world as he drags the back of his arm across his running nose, squishy, wet and sniffing. And he sighs. That deep sigh of relief. Real relief. Not I passed an exam relief. I mean the “She’s not pregnant” relief.

-=-

No.  
You don’t know.

The fear that comes in those first few hushed moments, lying there holding your breath shallow, as if every sip of air you take sucks away his breath. Waiting. Frozen mid-moment like some Blue Velvet diorama, until his voice comes in a trembling, faltering query, “Sammy?”

The control it takes to bludgeon the urge to answer, because that’s not what he needs or wants, he needs me to wait. So I wait, lying there in tense anticipation, part delighted part ashamed. Breathlessly listening to his mattress complain as he crawls to the edge, waiting like a child on Christmas morn-- waiting to hear his feet padding the ratty carpet, waiting to hear his breathing near my bed, waiting for him to finally, finally whisper “Sammy?”

That I swallow all my tension, all my fear, all my quivering, shamed delight in a silent gulp. We both know I wasn’t asleep, but that’s not how the the game is played, so I use my best sleepy voice and I whisper, “Yeah Dean, you ok?” And I lift the covers so he can slip in, warm beside me.

-=-

 

No.  
You don’t know.

How in those early grey hours, the sun dispelling the night’s turmoil, I give him what you never can. As he slides in close, nuzzles his face against my neck, chin on my shoulder and washes me in a hot sigh of relief. Guarding him from your breath, afraid it still carries the scent of the filth and the foul and the fear you’ve eaten.

What it is to be his, not for tonight or right now, not picked from a group of maybes, but to be created from The Beginning to be his, his perfect and true match in every way. Every way that you will never be. You’ll never feel trust and love and lust blossom in your arms, hot, honest, true. Not lewdness or lechery, no drunkenness, no guile, no lies. 

How it feels him to have him so completely inside you, connected in flesh and soul.. . to hear his panting raw voice call out your name .. part relief, part sob, part prayer. You can never give him the peace, the absolution he’s so desperately clawing for. You will never be his sin-eater, swallowing all the darkness, fear and anger he pounds inside you, guiding him to his own blinding white redemption. 

-=-

 

Sigh.

But what I say is, “No, Donna, you really don’t”


End file.
